


My Man Eames

by earlgreytea68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception Bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7632937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur inherited several things unexpectedly, out of the blue, on a bright summer day in 1932.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Man Eames

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Inception Bingo square "screwball comedy." Except it's not all that screwball-comedy. It's more like a weird P.G. Wodehouse-type thing. I was flipping through screwball comedies to get inspired and came upon "My Man Godfrey" and then this story showed up. 
> 
> Thank you as ever to arctacuda for the beta!

Arthur inherited several things unexpectedly, out of the blue, on a bright summer day in 1932. According to the telegram, these were: “collection of doll houses handsome pink ceramic vase rose garden six books leather-bound Bruce house Alfa Romeo 6m pounds STOP”

Arthur stared at the telegram. Said aloud, “Six million pounds?” And then considered that the telegram had rather buried the lede. 

Arthur at first assumed the telegram must be a mistake, meant for someone else. Or that it didn’t mean what it seemed to mean. Or that it was all an elaborate joke. 

But on contacting the attorney whose office the telegram had been sent through, Arthur was told an insane story about being a distant cousin of the Earl of Morcester, and so, it turned out, the heir to the title and its associated—

Arthur interrupted at that point and said, “Title?” 

***

Arthur arrived in England for the first time in his life one month later, stepping off the passenger liner in Southampton and resolving that he was going to live in England the rest of his life because he was never setting foot on a boat ever again. 

He was exhausted from the last few days of constant seasickness, anxious because he was in a country where he knew no one, terrified because he was supposed to be some kind of _earl_ , and depressed because he had had a life in America so devoid of anything worthwhile that he had immediately said, “Yeah, sure, I’ll pick up and move myself to England.” And, on top of all that, annoyed, because he had wanted to set foot in England and turn over a new leaf, right off the bat, greet his new life with hope and optimism and joy, and not, you know, vomiting off the side of the dock. 

And because he was Arthur and therefore this was how things went, someone behind him said, “Are you Arthur?” 

He was in a country where he knew no one, so how had someone who knew him showed up to humiliate him at just this precise moment? Only he would inherit an apparent six million pounds just so the universe could find new ways to laugh at him. 

Arthur collapsed on the dock and said, “Go away. No. I’m not Arthur.” 

“The steward said you are,” said the voice. 

Arthur groaned. “Not now. Come back later.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a pause. “Later when?” 

Arthur gave up and lifted his head and finally looked at the man who was talking to him. Arthur was a little dizzy from a few days of not eating and of ejecting everything he tried to eat, so he really just had an impression that the man was good-looking and had a paisley handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket and wasn’t wearing a hat. 

Arthur said, “Who are you?” 

“I’m Eames,” said the man. “I’m your valet.” 

“I don’t have a valet,” said Arthur. 

“Oh.” The man smiled. He had a mouth that made Arthur want to lean forward and sink his teeth into his lower lip. A thought that made Arthur think he might just recover from his seasickness eventually. “You inherited me. Come on, up you get.” Eames reached out a hand and bodily pulled Arthur to standing as if Arthur weighed no more than a child. And then Eames, to pile on the embarrassment, dusted Arthur’s clothes off. 

“What are you doing?” asked Arthur stupidly, too stunned to do anything but stand there. 

“Making you presentable, my lord,” said Eames, still smiling. “That’s a valet’s job.” 

“What are you calling me?” 

“You’re the Earl of Morcester now. Didn’t you get my telegram?” 

“The telegram,” Arthur echoed. “That telegram didn’t say anything about the title. The lawyer had to tell me later.” 

“Oh.” Eames looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right. Well, telegrams are expensive, you know. Pay by the word. I had to leave some things out.” 

“Like the _title_?” 

Eames shrugged. 

“You left out the title but you included the _ceramic vase_?”

“It’s a lovely vase,” sighed Eames. “Wait until you see it. Now. Do you get carsick or just seasick?” 

***

Eames had driven the Alfa Romeo. Eames was still driving the Alfa Romeo. Arthur sat in the passenger seat and closed his eyes and actually fell asleep. Four straight days of wanting to _die_ exhausts a man. 

He woke to Eames shaking him, with one of his smiles, and then whispering, “Do you want to see your new home?” 

“Why are we whispering?” Arthur whispered back. 

“Why not?” whispered Eames, and then straightened away from him. 

Arthur sighed. Only he would inherit an insane valet. 

The house was huge. The house was like an entire city block in New York. Arthur stared at it. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he asked frankly. 

“If you want my opinion,” said Eames, “I would subdivide it into flats.” 

“Really?” 

“Except for the West Wing. I’d make that into a cinema.” 

“Why would I need my own cinema?” asked Arthur, confused. 

“Why not? You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, my lord.” 

Arthur frowned. “Don’t call me that.” 

“What else should I call you?” 

“I don’t know. Not that. I’m not an earl.”

“Yes, you are.” 

“I’ve never even _been_ here before. I’m just…I’m just Arthur. I’m an _accountant_.”

“Now that’s just a waste, darling,” said Eames. “Don’t tell me you spent your days cooped up with numbers.” 

“Darling?” echoed Arthur, shocked. 

“Come inside and meet Bruce,” said Eames, and headed into the house. 

Arthur followed him for lack of anything better to do. “You’re not Bruce?”

“I’m Eames,” said Eames. “Remember? This is Bruce.” 

He gestured toward the staircase. 

The staircase was at least eleven times bigger than it needed to be, which was why it took Arthur a moment to locate the orange tabby cat descending it. 

“Hullo, Bruce,” Eames said to the cat, who streaked across the gleaming black-and-white floor to him. “This is Arthur. He’s our new earl. He’ll give you lots of treats.” Bruce was now rubbing against Eames’s legs, purring. Eames leaned down and scratched behind Bruce’s ears, then looked up at Arthur. “Say hullo,” he prompted.

“I’m allergic to cats,” said Arthur, and then started sneezing. 

***

Arthur woke to bright daylight in a strange bed in a strange bedroom with a strange man sitting in the armchair across from the bed, watching him sleep. 

Arthur sat up abruptly. 

“Good morning,” said Eames pleasantly. 

“Were you just watching me sleep?” 

Eames shrugged. “Nothing better to do.” 

“It’s a little creepy.” 

“Is it? Don’t worry, you’re very handsome when you sleep.” 

“I wasn’t worried about that,” protested Arthur, scowling, “I—” Arthur cut himself off in sneezes, just as Bruce leaped onto the bed meowing at him. 

“Oh, dear,” said Eames. “You really _are_ allergic.” 

“Why would I lie about that?” demanded Arthur, and sneezed again. 

“Oh, dear, Bruce,” said Eames, retrieving the cat from Arthur’s bed. “We’ll need to come up with a solution to this puzzlement.” 

“We can live in separate wings,” said Arthur, wondering if there was a handkerchief in the nightstand, as Eames walked the cat out of the room. “God knows there’s enough room.” 

“Here you are, darling,” Eames said, his paisley handkerchief materializing under Arthur’s nose. “And I made you breakfast.” 

Arthur blew his nose with as much dignity as he could muster and regarded the breakfast Eames indicated. It looked to Arthur like it was a slice of burnt toast. _Cold_ burnt toast. 

“It’s cold,” Arthur said. 

“You slept later than I expected,” said Eames. 

“It’s burnt,” Arthur said. 

“For an accountant, you’re awfully particular,” said Eames. 

Arthur sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He had a pounding headache. 

“Here’s what I propose,” said Eames. “I’ll draw you a bath and you can soak and relax and then we can go to the pub and you can put some food inside of you. When’s the last time you had a proper meal?” 

“America,” said Arthur truthfully. 

“I thought so. Eat your toast, I’ll draw the bath.” 

Eames disappeared into the en-suite bathroom. Arthur looked dubiously at his toast, picked it up, and carried it, tip-toeing, to the doorway. Bruce was waiting in the hallway, looking indignantly at the closed door. 

“Here,” Arthur whispered to him, setting the piece of toast down. “Let’s be friends.” 

Bruce sniffed at the toast, turned his nose up, and walked away. 

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” said Arthur, and sneezed. 

***

Arthur refused to take a bath with Eames watching him. He also refused to let Eames undress him. 

“It’s what valets do,” said Eames blandly. 

Arthur didn’t know if men who weren’t attracted to other men let other men undress them routinely, but Arthur was certainly drawing the line at that. Eames was undressing him in the heat of passion—and it was ridiculous to even _suppose_ such a circumstance—or not at all. 

So Eames relented to waiting in the bedroom and Arthur peeled off travel-weary clothing and let the bath soak days’ worth of disgustingness off of him. He could have fallen asleep again, except that Eames knocked on the door and said, “Have you fallen asleep in there?” 

“No,” Arthur denied blearily, blinking himself awake. 

“Do you need help getting out of the bath?” asked Eames. 

“ _No_ ,” said Arthur. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, and pulled himself out of the bath. 

He pulled on his robe and headed into his bedroom, where there was a hodge podge of clothing on the bed. 

“I’ve set out an outfit for you,” Eames said helpfully, and gestured. 

“How is that an outfit?” asked Arthur. “Nothing matches. How difficult would it be to simply set out a suit for me?” 

“But that would be boring,” Eames said, looking crestfallen. 

Arthur didn’t like Eames to look crestfallen. Which was how, the first time he walked into the local pub, he was dressed like something out of Wonderland. 

Everyone was staring at him. Arthur tried not to fidget. 

“I should have worn a regular suit,” he hissed at Eames, as he followed Eames to seats by the roaring fire. 

“Why?” asked Eames. “You look lovely.” 

Arthur didn’t analyze the fact that he blushed. He said, “But everyone is staring at me.” 

“Because you’re the new earl,” said Eames. “And because you look lovely. Now stay here and I’ll get us some food.” 

Arthur tried not to frown too heavily. He tried to smile instead. He wanted to make friends here. He didn’t want a repeat of his lonely existence in New York, where he could pick up and move across an ocean and have no one even really _notice_. 

The smile must have worked, because an elegant blonde deposited herself in Eames’s vacated chair and said, smiling at him, “I’m Veronica Dearling. How do you do?” She held out her hand for him. 

“Oh,” he said stupidly, and then he tried to pretend that attractive woman came up and spoke to him all the time. “Hi. I’m Arthur.” He took her hand and did something hasty and clumsy with it. 

Veronica’s smile didn’t falter. “The new earl.” 

“Yeah,” said Arthur uncertainly. “I guess.” 

“Delightful,” said Veronica. “We’re having a party. Tomorrow night. You simply must come. Hullo, Eames.” 

Because Eames had arrived back. “Good evening,” said Eames pleasantly. “His lordship is very weary from his long journey.” 

“Oh, of course he is,” said Veronica, and stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then?”

“Sure,” said Arthur, and tried to say it airily, like he got invited to parties all the time. 

“What’s tomorrow night?” asked Eames, navigating through the cloud of Veronica’s perfume to reclaim his seat. 

“She invited me to a party,” said Arthur, and then smiled, pleased with himself. Already things in England were going better than New York. “Isn’t that nice? So friendly.” 

Eames made a dubious noise. 

Arthur frowned at him. “Shouldn’t you be saying, like, ‘yes, my lord’? You’re a very bad valet.” 

“I thought you didn’t like being called ‘my lord.’”

“I don’t,” grumbled Arthur. 

“Don’t worry,” said Eames magnanimously. “You don’t have to make sense. You’re the earl.” 

***

The meal with Eames was surprisingly pleasant. Eames told him stories about the old earl, who had apparently been what Eames called “a rascal” in his younger days. Eames asked about being an accountant in New York. 

“You can’t possibly want to follow up the stories you’ve just been telling with accounting stories,” said Arthur.

“I find it difficult to believe you were truly an accountant,” said Eames. “I mean, look at you.” 

Arthur hesitated, on uncertain footing. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re glorious. Surely you’re the most glorious accountant to ever exist. Were the ledger books the only things that got to see your dimples?”

Arthur blushed again. “Stop it. I don’t know why you say things like that.” 

“Because I am a very bad valet,” said Eames, smiling at him. 

“Did the old earl think so, too?” 

“The old earl loved me,” said Eames. “That’s why he passed me on to you. He said I ought to help show you the ropes. So here I’ve shown you the local pub. The most important rope I know. What other ropes would you like to know about?” 

“I suppose I should see the house,” said Arthur. 

He hadn’t realized how long they’d been sitting there. The pub had mostly emptied out and was on its way to being back full again. Arthur had eaten enough to feed a small army and would have been embarrassed about it if he hadn’t also been ravenous. He and Eames walked back to the house, and then they stood and looked at it together, and then Eames said, “I have a proposal.” 

“What’s that?” Arthur asked. 

“Hide and seek,” said Eames. 

And that was how Arthur found himself stalking through empty galleries, tugging at old closet doors, crawling underneath ancient pieces of furniture, all the while swearing, because how the hell was it that he’d been convinced to play _hide and seek_ , of all things, in this enormous house he didn’t know with a person who knew it well? 

Arthur was in the process of investigating a particular closet when he leaned on the wall just so and the wall completely gave way and he tumbled through into a secret room and everything behind him in the closet clattered down and blocked his way out. 

“Damn,” Arthur sighed, huffing out breath, and started trying to budge various odds and ends of furnishings out of his way.

Eames’s face appeared on the opposite end of the tangle of table legs and floor lamps. “Boo,” he said, grinning. 

Arthur scowled at him.

“The house has a couple of secret rooms,” Eames said. 

“I noticed,” said Arthur shortly. “Do you think you could help here?” 

“Are you stuck?” asked Eames innocently. 

“I’m going to hit you over the head with one of those lamps when I get out,” Arthur said. 

“You’re an abusive employer,” said Eames. 

“Only your head is probably hard enough that you’ll break the lamp instead of the other way around,” Arthur continued. 

Eames laughed. “Come along,” he said. “I shall fight my way through this thicket of furniture on your behalf, and then I shall show you your wine cellar.” 

***

The wine cellar led to the choosing of a bottle and the sprawling out on the back lawn splitting it between them. 

“It was designed by a major landscape architect,” Eames said. “The grounds, I mean. They’re basically a bloody national treasure.”

“Who designed them?” Arthur asked curiously. 

Eames shrugged. “Hell if I know. Do you know anything about landscape architects?” 

“No,” said Arthur, “but I could learn. I’m good at learning things.” 

“I bet you are,” said Eames and tipped a little smile Arthur’s way that made Arthur’s heart beat unnaturally—and foolishly—fast. 

“Where are all the other servants?” Arthur asked, to try to distract himself from the cocoon of Eames. 

Eames lifted an eyebrow. “Already growing used to this lavish lifestyle?” 

“No. But it’s just…a really big house. And a lot of money.” 

“It’s just me,” Eames said. “There was no reason to have anybody else about. We’d have a girl from the village come up and clean it every so often, but other than that, the old earl and I got on.” 

Arthur considered this. “But what did the two of you eat?” 

“Are you suggesting I can’t cook?” asked Eames, sounding amused. 

Arthur thought back to the toast that morning. “Not suggesting so much as…” 

“You’re mean,” said Eames, and impossibly drew his finger down Arthur’s nose, smiling at him. “It’s a good thing you’re also adorable, or you’d never get away with that.” 

Arthur blushed again. “I’m not adorable.” 

“Did no one in New York ever tell you that? New Yorkers are blind.” 

“I didn’t like New York,” confessed Arthur. 

“No? If no one was calling you adorable, I shouldn’t wonder.” 

“I want it to be different here,” said Arthur wistfully. “I want to like it here. I want people to like _me_.” 

“I like you very much,” said Eames. 

“You just met me,” Arthur pointed out. 

“Nevertheless, I think we’ll suit. I’ve decided against tendering my resignation.” 

“Was that a possibility?” 

“A certainty. And then you turned out to be _adorable_.” Eames smiled at him. 

***

Arthur woke in the morning to an empty bedroom. He got himself washed and dressed and, after only a couple of false starts, found Eames in the kitchen, talking to Bruce about the contents of the newspaper as he clattered pots and pans about. 

“Good morning,” he said to Arthur brightly. “Off with you, Bruce. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to share me now.” He tipped Bruce out the kitchen door, onto the grounds, and turned back to Arthur. 

“You weren’t watching me sleep,” Arthur pointed out. 

Eames looked amused. “I thought you didn’t like that.” 

“I don’t,” said Arthur, and dropped into a chair at the table. 

“I’m making breakfast,” Eames said. 

Arthur watched whatever was happening with the pots and pans dubiously. “Can you actually make breakfast?” 

“Probably,” said Eames. 

“Did the old earl starve to death?” asked Arthur. 

Eames laughed. “Really, you’re so very mean.” He made _mean_ sound like _delightful_ and ruffled Arthur’s hair. 

The phone rang. Arthur answered it because his only other option in life was to stare in bewilderment at his valet. 

“Is this your lordship?” said the voice on the other end. “It’s Veronica Dearling.” 

“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Yes, but it’s…just Arthur.” 

“I just wanted to give you some details about the party tonight. It’s at my place—everyone knows where my place is, just ask around—and the later the better! Cheerio!”

Arthur, confused, hung the telephone up. “What time are you supposed to get to a party when the invitation calls for ‘the later the better’?”

Eames snorted. “Is this a Veronica Dearling party? Because I would vote ‘never’ for a Veronica Dearling party.” Eames put a plate of something in front of Arthur. 

“Why?” said Arthur. “What’s wrong with Veronica Dearling?”

“I just don’t think she’s your type.” 

“How do you know ‘my type’?” Arthur asked sourly. 

Eames lifted an eyebrow at him. 

Arthur was annoyed. Because here was his opportunity to be _normal_ , here in England, where nobody knew him to be anything but normal yet, and Eames was already acting like he’d ruined it. “I can’t wait to go to Veronica’s party,” he said staunchly. “She is definitely my type. And what _is_ this?” Arthur poked at the black congealed mess on his plate.

“Eggs,” said Eames shortly. 

“Are eggs different in England?” asked Arthur politely. 

Eames scowled at him, then suddenly laughed. “Bloody hell, you are adorable even when you’re trying to be angry with me.” 

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” said Arthur primly, “and I’m not eating this poisonous food.” 

***

Arthur got lost three times on the way to the pub, but he made it there eventually. They brought him edible food, and Arthur told himself how refreshing it was and that he didn’t miss Eames during the meal because that would be insane. 

“How are things going, my lord?” asked the bartender kindly. 

“Fine,” Arthur said. And then, “I’ve been invited to Veronica Dearling’s for a party tonight.” 

The bartender laughed. “Who hasn’t?”

Which made Arthur feel a little less like he was making friends in this weird place. 

Arthur said, “Eames has been very helpful.” 

“Careful with him,” said the bartender. “He has a way of making himself indispensable.” 

Arthur didn’t know what to make of that. 

***

Arthur tried on and discarded every outfit he owned. It was a sad state of affairs. He should have bought new clothing, now that he was a millionaire. 

“Perhaps I ought to help,” said Eames from the doorway sardonically. “It is, after all, my job.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Arthur, and collapsed backward onto his bed. “Veronica Dearling doesn’t even _like_ me. She just invited me out of _pity_.” 

“She invited you because you’re a millionaire, darling, which is something you’d better get used to. No one’s going to pity you ever again in your life. Up you go, let’s make a vision out of you. Look what I brought.” 

Arthur sat up and stared at what Eames was presenting to him. “That’s a tuxedo!” 

“Isn’t it just? Well-brushed and ready to go.” 

“Where did you get that?”

“The secret special valet store,” said Eames. “Come along, darling, let’s get you out of that and into this.” Eames started pulling Arthur’s shoulder. 

There seemed like no reason not to let Eames do this. “Does anyone invite anybody to a party just because they like them?” he asked miserably. “I mean, why does it have to be so complicated all the time?” 

“Private parties,” Eames replied, unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt, “are much more likely to be based on liking other people.” 

“How do I get invited to private parties? Why am I even asking you this?” 

“Because it is very hard not to ask important questions of a very wise and clever valet.” 

“Oh, is it?” asked Arthur innocently. “If you find one of those, be sure to send him my way.” 

Eames laughed, warm and familiar, and Arthur became aware that he was still sprawled on his bed and now Eames was setting about removing his trousers. 

“Oh,” Arthur said abruptly, “maybe not—”

Eames’s hands stopped moving, and Arthur closed his eyes in resignation, because there was, of course, no way Eames had missed the fact that Arthur was half-hard already, just because Eames had been, well, _Eames_ with him. 

And then Eames, suddenly, over the layer of Arthur’s underwear, pressed his mouth to Arthur. Arthur’s eyes flew open and he stared down at Eames’s head and told himself to move away and instead horrifyingly moved _toward_ Eames, with a helpless gasp. 

“Mmm,” Eames hummed against him, and then pulled his underwear down. 

“You…” managed Arthur breathlessly. “You don’t have to…” 

Eames looked up at him, his head hovering over Arthur’s very interested penis, and Arthur didn’t even know what to _make_ of this, how was he a British lord with a valet’s mouth very near his erection? Eames said, “You should know something about me, darling: I never, ever do anything I feel I _have_ to do. I only ever do what I _want_ to do.” 

And then Eames, holding Arthur’s gaze, swallowed Arthur expertly down. 

Arthur tried to be dignified about the entire situation, but it was absolutely impossible. He tried to stuff his entire fist into his mouth to stop his embarrassing groans from escaping, he tried to keep his hips still, twitching them in furtive little jerks. 

Eames pulled off and grabbed Arthur’s hand away and pinned it to the bed. “Stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to hear you.” 

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur said helplessly, worried he was just going to start babbling. “I want… I can’t… Oh, God…” 

Eames, after a second, said softly, “And do you _ever_ do what you want to do?” 

Arthur met his gaze and made a distressed little whimper. 

“All yours, darling,” Eames said, and lifted Arthur’s hand from the bed, kissed it, and then settled it on his head. “All yours. Tell me what you want.” 

“I don’t…” Arthur shook his head. “Everything. I want…too much.” 

“Oh,” said Eames with a crooked smile. “That’s absolutely impossible, darling. It can never be too much. Show me.” Eames leaned down again, sucked exquisitely, cheeks hollowing. 

Which snapped Arthur’s control. He closed his hand on Eames’s head into a fistful of hair, surely tugging hard enough to be uncomfortable, and he thrust forward into Eames’s mouth, and he took and took and took and took until he climaxed with a shout. When he finally made his hand let go of Eames’s hair, his fingers actually _hurt_ , he’d been clutching so tightly. 

Arthur felt floaty, boneless, exhausted, sweaty, giddy. 

Eames moved up his body and captured Arthur’s lips in a kiss Arthur was too disjointed to even think about returning. Arthur just laughed helplessly, delightedly, into Eames’s mouth. 

“Never let it be said I’m not a full-service valet,” said Eames. 

“I like England,” Arthur managed. 

Eames laughed. “Let’s get you into that tuxedo.” 

***

Eames got Arthur into the tuxedo only to get him out of the tuxedo. 

Arthur spent the evening making Eames tell him about every tattoo Arthur had discovered on Eames’s body. 

Eames said, “Do you want to go to Veronica Dearling’s party? It’s probably the later the better now.” 

“I like this private party,” Arthur said from Eames’s chest, and then suddenly lifted his head up with a frown. “Are you just doing this because I’m a millionaire?” 

“No,” Eames said. “Because you’re my employer.” 

“ _Really_?” said Arthur, stricken. 

“Stop it,” Eames said good-naturedly. “I’m doing it because I like you. I’m someone who actually likes you.” 

“Are you?” asked Arthur, anxious. “It’s just so hard to tell.” 

“I like you. I can’t believe no one’s ever told you that before, but yes, I am a person who very much likes the person of you. And I don’t care that you’re a millionaire. I’m one, too.” 

Arthur pulled back from the soft nuzzles of Eames against his face. “You are?” 

Eames nodded. “Your distant relative the old earl was a very rich bloke.” 

Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Did you do this for the old earl, too?” 

Eames started laughing uproariously. 

Arthur sat up, offended. “I don’t think it’s an unreasonable question.” 

“It’s not, darling,” Eames said fondly. “But no. If you’d ever met the old earl…no. I used to charm women on his behalf. I was his advance guard, so to speak. I am not actually a valet.” 

“You don’t say,” said Arthur drily. 

“And really, I was going to be far away from this place before you ever got here. But I was curious about you, and then I saw you, and then I…had to have you.” 

“And what am I supposed to do?” asked Arthur, sincerely contemplating the problem, propping his chin on Eames’s chest. “With the title, with the house, with you?” 

“Oh, darling,” said Eames, laughing again. “You look genuinely concerned about that.” 

“I _am_ ,” said Arthur, growing more annoyed. 

Eames flipped them, pressing Arthur into the mattress underneath him with a mock growl as he bit at Arthur’s jaw. “Listen, my lord,” he said. “Do you know what you’re going to do?” 

“No,” Arthur said, even as he tipped his chin to give Eames better access to his neck. “That’s why I’m _asking_.” 

“Anything you bloody well want,” said Eames. “And we can start with me.” 

So Arthur did.


End file.
